“What I saw there.” His gaze took on a distant look that was hard and cold. “I thought I’d seen everything that could happen to a man, the things he could suffer. But that—that thing came through the doors . . .” He rubbed his forehead, as if the memory gave him pain. “It makes my head hurt,” he said finally. “I never really believed you. But you were right about all of it.”
“Stop,” I said to him. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”
It was. But I still felt its shadow even as we sat in the motorcar on the way to London, in the lines on my husband’s face, in the way I woke sometimes with cold sweat on my body, my neck aching. The bruises on my body faded, but I remembered how Robert had kicked me, how he’d pushed me that day in the woods, with a rawness that stayed vivid. When we arrived in London, I saw in Dottie an echo of the same rawness in the shadows under her eyes, in the new softness that had entered her manner.
The one who was doing better than all of us, it turned out, was Martin. The surgeries had improved his health dramatically, and though he was still weak in his recovery, he glowed with new life that I hadn’t seen in him before. He was shocked and grieving for his father, but in the helpless way of the chronically ill, his own health was topmost in his mind. Marriage agreed with him, as did London. By tacit understanding, none of us told him the truth of Frances’s death. That was a conversation, we all believed, for a later time. As for Frances’s ghost and Princer, I would never tell him about them at all.
We met with Dottie, Martin, and Cora for supper at the Savoy, where Dottie was staying. Dottie was fully recovered from her injury, sprightly and as tireless as before, wearing her usual severe suit, but I was shocked to see that she’d cut her hair—instead of the usual tightly wound hairstyle, she now wore it cropped and marcelled within an inch of its life, each curl tidy and placed exactly against her head.
“Dottie,” I teased her as we took our seats around the table. “You told me that bobbed hair was fast.”
“On you it would be,” she replied with the conviction of a woman who has talked herself into being right at all costs. “On me it’s merely practical.”
“It looks very modern on you, Mother,” Martin said. He was dressed in his best suit and tie, his hair slicked to a shine. Though he was pale, he had finally managed to gain weight. “I told you that when you got it done.”
“Don’t be silly, Martin,” she admonished him, though she dressed down her son in much milder tones than she’d ever used with me. “Tying my hair back while I was recovering caused pain. I couldn’t leave it down, so I simply had to cut it.”
“Am I fast?” Cora asked from her seat beside Martin. She was wearing a dress of forest green silk that shimmered in the light. She, too, looked different—happier, perhaps, more confident. “I didn’t know, and now that I do, I can’t say that I mind.” She cast Martin a look from under her lashes. “Darling, you’ll have to remind me which fork to use! You know I’ll simply pick the wrong one.”
“Of course,” Martin said, pleased. He turned to Alex. “You look as good as new, Cousin.”
“So do you,” Alex replied. He’d put on his best winter suit, of rich wool in deep blue-gray that matched his eyes. He’d visited the barbershop when we’d arrived in town, and his hair was as short as he’d worn it before the war, his jaw clean-shaven. Even with the faint lines of weariness at the corners of his eyes, I had to force myself not to stare at him.
There was something about Martin’s and Cora’s happiness, despite all that had happened, that buoyed the mood. Dottie’s strained, faraway look relaxed somewhat, and though she was much changed, I recognized the lightness of her mood as the same one she’d had when we’d traveled Europe. There was something about being in London, about sitting in the Savoy with a pleased pair of newlyweds, ordering champagne, that let us all forget for a little while, that kept the shadows and the memories at bay.
“I suppose this is as good a time as any,” Dottie said as dessert was served. “I’m selling the house.”
There was a moment of silence around the table. Cora’s eyes went as wide as Clara Bow’s.
“That’s a bit of a shock,” Martin said at last.
“Nonsense.” Dottie tried for her old tone, though she missed the mark. She patted her pockets for her cigarette holder, then changed her mind, perhaps not wishing to disturb the other diners at the Savoy. “Everyone is gone now, and I’d be there alone. I’ll take a flat in London. The house will be packed and empty by Easter, and I’ll travel the Continent again.” She darted a glance at me. “Perhaps I’ll find myself a new companion.”
“What about the art?” I asked her.
“Don’t worry, Manders. I’ll find buyers. And I may acquire more when I travel again. I have an excellent eye.”
“I don’t know, Mother.” Martin sounded doubtful.
“Oh, no, darling,” Cora said. “It will be an adventure for her.”
Surprisingly, Dottie looked at me. “What do you think?”